Three Dark Days
by Swellison
Summary: Missing Scenes from Faith, spoilers for Faith episode 12, season 1 . My explanation of what happened while Dean was in the hospital.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Originally published in Blood Brothers #3, edited by Jeanne R. Gold

Three Dark Days

By Swellison

Sam shifted restlessly in the armless visitor's chair by Dean's bed, on the opposite side from the computerized monitoring system hooked up to his brother's heart. Sam's extra-tall frame wasn't meant to be accommodated by the average-sized cafeteria chair, and he restlessly stretched his cramped legs, locking his knees to keep them straight in front of him, like two long planks. His "freakishly long legs," Dean had called them.

Dean…

His brother lay still in the hospital bed, his latest sleep undisturbed by Sam's movements. Sam sighed. The doctor had explained that chronic, overwhelming fatigue was one of the aftereffects of a massive heart attack, and Sam understood that, really.

He remembered when he was barely into his second month at Stanford, he'd come down with Mono, of all things. It was too soon after his dramatic exit to call his family for help, so he'd toughed it out on his own…and in the process had discovered what a great roommate Zach Warren was. Sam had slept for two solid days, and had been confined to his bed for more than a week after that. Zach had stepped up to the plate, made sure Sam had food and water, and kept track of his classes and homework, too. Zach had asked if he could call anyone for Sam, and if he'd been surprised by Sam's "no," he hadn't let on, just kept watch over his just-over-a-month roommate. So, yes, Sam understood fatigue; he simply couldn't reconcile applying it to Dean.

But he'd have to, because that was the way Dean was…now. It hurt to listen to his croaky voice, at half-speed and half-volume, to see him lying so still on the bed, or twitching restlessly in his sleep as he was doing now. Sam reached for Dean's hand, holding it firmly.

Dean's eyes slowly opened, and he looked dully around the night-darkened room, finally noticing Sam. "You still here?" he croaked.

"Where else would I be?"

"Go home, Sammy. Get some sleep. Don't want you vulturin' over me while I sleep at night."

"Dean—"

"My room. My rules." Dean licked his lips, then continued, "Don't want you in the room when they're examining me, either. Man's gotta have some privacy."

"Dean—"

"C'n talk to the doctors and nurses all you want, just…no peep show, got it?"

About to fling back some witty retort, Sam paused, glancing down at Dean's hospital gown, with the monitoring wires protruding from it, but most of Dean's chest concealed underneath. Dean had been electrocuted; there had to be contact burns all over his body. _Dean doesn't want me to see it. He doesn't want to look vulnerable in front of me. Two weeks from dy— hell, half-dead, and he's still protecting me. Ah, Dean, you'll never stop being my big brother._Sam swallowed. "Okay."

"Bring the cribbage board and some M&Ms tomorrow." Dean swallowed, head shifting restlessly. "If you're gonna hang out here all day, you're gonna provide entertainment and presents."

Sam strived for normalcy. "Sure, but remember what they say. 'Beware of geeks bearing gifts.'"

Dean's reaction was pure instinct. He reached for a pillow behind his head, intent on beaning Sam. The pillow fell far short, landing on Dean's upper thighs. Sam saw the look of stunned surprise in his brother's eyes before it was replaced by pain from the motion.

"Dean—"

"I'm all right, Sammy," Dean said tightly. "Just go."

About to object, Sam realized no matter how badly Dean was hurting, he wasn't going to summon a nurse for help or take pain pills in front of his little brother.

Sam sighed.

"See you tomorrow. Bright and early." He reluctantly turned and left his brother's room.

SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN

Sam closed the door behind him, surveying the motel room they'd checked into shortly before going after the rawhead last night. He plopped his bag on the floor next to the closer of the two beds—Dean's preferred sleeping location. "My room. My rules," Sam muttered, then snatched the laptop and set it gently on the far side of the bed. He reached for the brochures he'd collected on the way out of the hospital, kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the mattress. Scrunching the pillows behind him, he made himself comfortable, back resting against the pillow-padded headboard and began to read. Everything he'd never wanted to know—but now had to—about heart attacks.

It was grim reading, depressing as hell, and after two hours of poring through the toned-down medicalese, Sam desperately needed a break.

He got up and fetched a bottle of water, then returned to the bed. Settling in, he opened and booted up the laptop, balancing it on his legs. He entered Dean's email password, opened up a new message and clicked on the H group list. Hunters. All the contacts Dean had taken over from Dad or acquired for himself during his years of hunting. Sam took a deep breath and started composing his request. Seeing the words _Dean was electrocuted_, _massive heart attack_, and _doctors say there's nothing they can do_ solidified Sam's pain and helplessness. He felt a couple of wet blobs run down his cheeks and knew he was crying, something he swore he was _not _going to do in front of Dean. Angrily, he scrubbed the tears from his face and hit "Send," hoping to get some good results from his mass mailing.

Something tickled his memory, and he dug through his duffel bag for Dad's journal. He opened the book, flipping through several pages until he found the one he was looking for. There were three names written in Dad's block letters, and the top one included a phone number. He glanced at the clock; it wasn't that late. Besides, Dad's contacts and friends tended to be night owls. Sam pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

"_Hello?"_ a man's voice answered after the fourth ring.

"Ah, Mr. Elkins?"

"_Who wants to know?"_ The voice sharpened with suspicion.

"You don't know me, sir, but my name is Sam Winchester. I found your number in my Dad's journal."

"_Sam? You're John Winchester's younger son, right?" _

"Yes, sir." Sam took a deep breath, then carefully explained Dean's plight.

The man on the other end of the phone listened intently, then sighed_. "Only one kind of immortality that I know about, boy, and you wouldn't wish it on your worst enemy, let alone your brother."_

"Immortality? But I'm not—"

"_I can't help you, Sam. I'm sorry. My advice: let your brother go in peace. I know that's not what you want to hear, but—" _

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Elkins," Sam said woodenly, and ended the call. He stared at the lighted display of his cell phone, restlessly paging through his contacts. He got to the page with Dad's number and froze, staring at it. Should he call? They'd had absolutely no success in reaching Dad, despite numerous voice messages. And Dad had told Sam to stop searching for him when he'd called unexpectedly from Sacramento. Still, this was about Dean. While Dad had plenty of reasons to avoid talking to Sam, none of those applied to Dean. But what if he left a message about Dean and Dad still didn't return his call? How could he look Dean in the eye and tell him that? No. There was still time. At least a couple of weeks. Sam could hold off on calling Dad for a little while. If Dean asked him to, well, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it. Sam closed his cell phone and placed it on the nightstand next to his bed.

Immortality? What the heck did Elkins meant by that? Sam wasn't asking for immortality; he just wanted a way to fix Dean's heart.

Maybe he needed to look at the conventional methods more closely. Sam returned to his laptop and started researching heart transplant information and procedures.

Hours later, he rubbed wearily at his eyes. Heart transplants were expensive, and available organs were few and far between. The wait-list procedures were daunting, to say the least. It wasn't fair; Dean had saved more lives than anyone else Sam could name, but he wasn't a rock star or a billionaire. He didn't have any clout, any way to get to the front of the list while he still had time to wait.

Sam paused, struck by a thought. Becca and Zach's parents, the Warrens, spent half the year living in Paris. They had to be very well-off, right? Maybe they had the clout Sam was desperately seeking. He glanced at the alarm clock. It was well after 4:00 a.m., and he needed to get at least a couple of hours' sleep before starting the new day. That way he wouldn't be lying when he told Dean, yes, he had slept, because he knew Dean would ask. So, first thing tonight, he'd email Becca, detailing what was going on with Dean. She'd help if she could.

He set the alarm for six-thirty and crawled into bed. As he drifted off to sleep, Sam reminded himself that he needed to detour to the drugstore to pick up some peanut M&Ms on the way to the hospital.

tbc

A/N: Hope you find everyone in character, and will stick around for more of the story. Please let me know what you think.


	2. Chapter 2 Time Well Spent

Three Dark Days

By Swellison

Sam stood, hesitating at the entrance of Dean's tiny cardiac care cubicle. Dean looked terrible, even worse than yesterday. Sam glanced at the rolling table to Dean's left, which had held a portable television when he'd visited yesterday. Someone had placed the TV on top of the nightstand to his brother's right, and the tray table now held the remains of Dean's barely picked over breakfast. A plate contained most of a short stack of pancakes and a toast triangle with two bites missing. A dish cover lay next to the plate, almost touching a small empty glass with traces of orange pulp clinging to its side. Further proof that Dean wasn't anywhere near his normal self: ordinarily, any pancakes—even hospital pancakes—would be long gone, with maybe a glop of maple syrup left on the empty plate.

Sam shifted his gaze from Dean's breakfast to his brother's pale face.

"Stop staring," Dean ordered hoarsely.

"I wasn't," Sam denied, stepping into the tiny makeshift cubicle. He felt the curtain swish against him as he moved. The curtains provided a modicum of patient privacy, but closing them would block the windows and greatly reduce the amount of light flowing into the room. Besides, Dean's voice wasn't nearly as strident as it usually was; the risk of anyone overhearing their conversation was pretty remote. Sam removed the breakfast dishes and set them on the nightstand, then rolled the tray to the opposite side of Dean's bed and dragged the visitor's chair next to it. He unslung his satchel and took off his jacket. Getting as comfortable as he could in the molded plastic chair, Sam reached into the satchel, and pulled out a bag of peanut M&Ms.

"I brought a deck of cards, too." Sam dug into his jacket pocket, pulled out the box, and placed the cards on the tray table. "You said you wanted presents," Sam reminded his brother, taking a second to rip the bag open before passing the peanut M&Ms over to Dean. "I don't know why you like M&Ms so much, though."

"Dude," Dean protested weakly. "Chocolate-covered peanuts in a colorful hard candy shell. What's not to like?"

"No, it's more than that," Sam said as Dean fiddled with the bag, extracting a red M&M. "Ever since we were little, peanut M&Ms have _always_ been your favorite."

Sam watched as Dean popped the piece of candy into his mouth, then reached into the bag and pulled out another one. He almost missed Dean's first, low-spoken words.

"Mom gave me my first bag of peanut M&Ms." Dean licked his lips and rolled the M&M around in his palm. "It was my fourth birthday and I was kinda getting impatient, waiting for the baby—you—to show up. She wanted to teach me about patience and waiting. She said I could have two M&Ms a day, just before bedtime and when the whole bag was gone, you'd be here.

Dean swallowed the second M&M. "Time's a difficult concept for a four-year-old. I'd just started to learn the hands of the clock thing. I knew the difference between weekdays and weekends because Dad didn't work on weekends. But I wasn't even in school yet, and Mom and I were always home."

Sam tried to tune out the wrongness of the raspy, weak sound of Dean's voice and concentrated on the words. Dean rarely spoke of Mom, so Sam eagerly absorbed the story.

"Anyway, Mom said you needed those extra days to grow, to be big and strong. That didn't make sense to me, because everyone knows babies are little. I told Mom that and she just laughed and handed me the first two M&Ms.

"That started the pattern. Every day, I ate two M&Ms. But I don't think I learned patience. A few months rolled by and I cheated. I ate all the pieces left in the bag, a double handful of peanut M&Ms. Mom found out when she was putting me to bed. She spotted the smears of red, tan, and yellow on my palms. I 'fessed up and Mom made sure I washed my hands, then put me to bed. When I woke up the next morning, Uncle Mike and Aunt Kate were at the house. Dad had taken Mom to the hospital, and you were born kicking and screaming at a quarter to two in the morning, on May second." Dean half-smiled. "That's when I learned what a potent force for good peanut M&Ms are."

Sam smiled, picturing a four-year-old Dean impatiently stuffing candy bits in his mouth to get his little brother to arrive faster. "Sure, Dean."

"Hey, don't knock it. Remember the wendigo's lair?"

"Yeah, they were better than a trail of breadcrumbs." Sam stretched, wriggling around a bit in his chair. "Wanna play a game of cards?"

"Not now," Dean answered lowly. "Think I want to rest for a bit."

Recalling the doctor's warning, Sam felt a pang of guilt. "Go ahead and take a nap." He picked up his satchel, flipped it open, and took out a book. "I brought some reading material to keep me busy."

"You and your books," Dean murmured sleepily, eyes slipping closed seconds later.

Sam opened the ancient text on witchcraft with the fairly innocuous title _Everyday Magick_. He didn't know what he was looking for, exactly, so he skimmed the book for anything that jumped out as a possible cure or spell; at this point, Sam wasn't picky. A few of the chapters were promising, and Sam felt himself slip into study mode, immersing himself in the book while Dean slept.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught Dean's movement. He glanced up from his reading and saw Dean shiver again. "Hang on, I'll get another blanket." Sam rose from the chair, opened a drawer in the rolling nightstand, and snagged a thin white blanket. He spread the extra cover over Dean's bed, tucking it in at the bottom. "That better?"

"Yeah." Dean sighed, one hand fretting with the new blanket. "This is ridiculous," he muttered sheepishly, "been lots colder than this. Remember that January in that crappy motel in Montana?"

_Which one? That could've been any number of times._ But Sam nodded, not wanting to distract his brother's train of thought.

"I was almost nine." Dean's voice was too soft, and maybe pain-edged, like even talking hurt. But he kept going. "Dad was off hunting a goblin—only there were two of them, so it was taking him longer than he expected. And the weather wasn't helping, either. It was a full-on blizzard. He called and told me he'd extended our room two more days. I couldn't go outside and restock our food supply, so two days later, we were down to the last can of SpaghettiOs. But Dad had bought the wrong can. It wasn't SpaghettiOs, it was Beef Ravioli. I knew you wouldn't eat that, but I cooked it anyway.

"I put the ravioli on your plate and told you it was SpaghettiOs, only it was so cold, the meatballs were covered by blankets."

"Dude, that was so lame."

"Hey, it worked. You ate 'em, practically licked your plate clean."

They'd spent a lot of winters in crappy motel rooms, but Sam remembered that time. Memory played back his brother's confident storytelling voice, which didn't quite hide the worried neediness underneath. "I ate them because you wanted me to so badly. I heard it in your voice."

"Oh."

Sam reached for the cup of ice on the tray table. "Here. Munch on this for a while." He held out the cup to Dean, and waited to make sure he had hold of the cup before releasing his own grip. While Dean tipped a few ice chips into his mouth, Sam took over the reminiscing. _If Dean wants to talk about the past rather than the present or the future, fine. I can do that._ "Hey, remember that time we were tracking down that black dog in the Colorado Mountains, near Telluride? Now _that_ was cold! We stepped out of that hunting cabin we were crashing at and into four feet of fresh snow…"

The morning passed in spurts of conversation, with long periods of Dean napping and Sam delving into his books, looking for a way out of this mess.

"Good morning, Mr. Berkowitz—"

Sam dropped his book on his lap as the young nurse in lilac scrubs entered Dean's cubicle.

"Oh!" The nurse paused, startled. "I didn't realize you had company."

Dean jerked awake at the new voice. "S'my brother. He was just leavin'."

"Hey, I don't—" Sam started to protest.

"No peep shows, remember?" Dean tried to growl, but it came out his now-usual rasp. "Go and get some lunch. Experience hospital food firsthand. You can talk to the nurse when you get back."

Sam's gaze flipped from Dean to the nurse. Dean wasn't even flirting. Usually_—_Sam winced mentally that his brother had a "usual" hospital patient mode at all—he'd be on a first-name basis with all the nurses, have them vying to give him a sponge bath.

"We'll talk later, sir. If you'll excuse me," she walked over to the window and took hold of the edge of the privacy curtain. "I need to examine your brother."

Taking the hint, Sam rose to his feet. "Later, dude," he said to Dean, eliciting a slight smile from his brother. He walked out of Dean's cubicle into the hallway, hearing the nurse yank the curtains closed around Dean's bed behind him.

SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN

Sam paused in front of the motel door, reaching for his key. He remembered—was it just two evenings ago?—he and Dean had picked up the room key and made a strafing run to the room, unloading non-essential items so they wouldn't have to do it after the hunt. Then they had headed back to the Impala, eager to track down that rawhead. Dean had been pleased at the proximity of the vending machine, right next door. Sam always kept a pocketful of change, but his brother knew and routinely used the five sweet spots on any beverage machine that could be tapped, bumped or slammed to produce free soft drinks. Doing anything the ordinary, law-abiding way was just so not-Dean. The thought brought a half-smile to Sam's face as he opened the door and stepped into the room. His smile disappeared as he walked past the bed by the door, which he'd neatly made that morning before going to the hospital. Craving normal, Sam dropped his satchel on top of the interior bed, his usual digs. Maybe if he buried himself in his books, he could pretend Dean was out carousing while he diligently researched their hunt—situation normal.

Wearily, he stepped over to the kitchenette, which occupied the back portion of this motel room. Sam shrugged off his jacket, draping it across the back of a chair by the kitchen table. Then he plunked the white bag of fast food in the countertop microwave, zapping chicken sandwich, French fries, ketchup packets, and all. After lecturing Dean about eating properly, he had to make sure he was following his own advice, didn't he?

When it was ready, Sam popped his dinner out of the microwave and placed it on the table. He crammed his tall frame into a vinyl-cushioned chair and mechanically opened the bag, removed the sandwich and fries, and dug in. He recalled Dean's story from that afternoon about their being unexpectedly thrown into extreme camping/survival mode in the deep woods of Wyoming. Forced to find food where he could, Dean had caught and killed a rattlesnake, skinning it and cooking the strips of meat over their campfire. He'd cajoled a fifteen-year-old Sammy into eating it, promising it "tastes like chicken, dude."

Sam swallowed. _Tastes like chicken,_ he agreed, munching distractedly. _Oh, it is._

Finished with his meal, Sam cleared the table by dumping the bag and wrappings in the wastebasket next to the room's basic white desk. Although Dean had only been in the room once, he'd managed to comment on the dismayingly feminine feel of the room, from the floral wallpaper to the small-scale furnishings. Pointing out the desk, he'd snarked, "Too girly for me, but it fits you, Samantha."

_Wrong again, Dean._ Sam gave up trying to shove his long legs under the too-short desk and grabbed the square-framed chair. He plunked it down facing the foot of his bed, leaving a gap of at least a yard between the two pieces of furniture. Then he snatched the laptop from the desk and settled into the chair, propping his feet up on the bed and balancing the laptop on his upper legs. Down to business. The first thing on tonight's agenda: his email to Becca. Becca's run-in with the shapeshifter had exposed her to Sam's other life, so he could write to her with refreshing honesty. It occurred to him that Becca knew more about his hunting lifestyle than Dean knew about his life at Stanford. _That's just wrong,_ Sam thought, then concentrated on his email.

_Becca, _

_I need your help. Dean's sick. No, hurt. Well, both, actually. We were hunting a creature that had grabbed a couple of kids. We freed the kids, unharmed, and Dean tasered the rawhead with 100,000 volts, but he accidentally electrocuted himself while doing it. The creature's dead, but Dean suffered a massive heart attack. The doctors say there's nothing they can do. They give him a month to live at the outside. I can't accept that. I won't. _

_Dean's not a pillar-of-the-community type, but he's a good man. He's saved a lot of people doing what we do. When I was little, I thought he was a superhero. Indestructible, you know? He's always looked after me, and I feel like I'm letting him down, the one chance I have to return the favor. I know I shouldn't ask, but…do you or your parents have any connections or clout with any hospitals? Dean needs a heart transplant, ASAP. I guess the doctors here have written him off as an unsuitable transplant patient. No money, very little time. Dean's my brother and he deserves to live. _

_Please, Becky, if you can help, let me know._

_Sam_

After he sent Becca's email, Sam glanced through his inbox impatiently. Only two replies from yesterday's mass mailings. Both hunters offered their sympathy, but they had no useful information to pass on to him. Sam sighed, then doggedly started searching the internet, starting with some of the more esoteric sites Dean had bookmarked.

Three hours of intense but ultimately fruitless researching later, Sam was ready for a break. He set the laptop on his bed and rose, heading for the kitchenette. He downed a bottle of water from the fridge in several long gulps, then started to pace the room, restless. It took less than ten steps to get from the kitchenette to the front door, even dodging around his recently vacated chair. Sam paced like a caged animal.

_Easy, Tiger,_ ghosted through his thoughts in Dean's amused tones from after their scuffle in his living room at Stanford.

Abruptly, Sam ceased pacing, making a beeline for the duffel by his bed. He picked it up and pawed through its contents quickly, locating and removing his father's journal. Sam stacked the pillows, impatiently kicked off his shoes, then stretched out full length on his bed, settling in to read. He heard Dean's voice again—_Dad's single most valued possession—_as he opened the notebook, determined to read it cover to cover, if that was what it took to find a cure.

Sam skimmed over the entries at the beginning, unwilling to get caught up in their family's past tragedy while he was trying so hard to prevent the current one. He painstakingly read through all the articles, sketches and notes Dad had made about all the supernatural creatures he'd studied or encountered, the overwhelming bulk of the journal's contents. He winced over the article on Roosevelt Asylum, then kept on reading the next pages.

An hour later, Sam stopped reading, tapping a finger against the page. Something wasn't right; he'd read from Dad's notes ever since he'd started hunting, but something was missing now. He frowned in thought. Names and numbers. Dad had kept a list of contacts—fellow hunters and whatnot—on a few pages in the middle of the book. Sam had definitely read past that part. He flipped through the rest of the journal. Nothing. The list of contacts had been removed.

_Or has it? _Sam closed the journal, then opened its back cover, staring at the plain brown endpaper. The front of the journal had a leather insert with a few business cards and stray notes tucked into it, but the back was simply papered. Sam dug his pocketknife out of his jeans and carefully cut a slit in the endpaper, close to the bottom, then gently probed underneath the paper with the knife. The blade connected with something hidden underneath and he extracted it, nudging the object out into the open. It turned out to be a few sheets of folded notebook paper. Sam unfolded the pages and saw a list of names and telephone numbers, in his father's distinctive half-cursive print. Eureka_._

Or as Dean would say, _Yahtzee._

In no time, Sam's cell phone was in his hand and he dialed the first name on the list. "Hello, is this Ted Anderson? My name is Sam Winchester. My Dad is John Winchester…"

Sam explained what he needed to everyone who answered their phone and left voicemails when he couldn't reach the actual person. Some of the hunters had also received an email from him. A few hung up when they heard "John Winchester," but most heard him out. Uniformly, they could offer nothing to help him in his hunt for a cure, a way to help Dean, although several promised to call him back if anything else occurred to them.

Once every name on the pages was contacted, Sam read the rest of Dad's journal, then finished reading the last book he'd taken to the hospital that morning. The third time he nodded off—only to snap awake as the open book landed on his chest—Sam reluctantly called it quits. He made a quick trip to the bathroom, made sure the alarm was set, and tumbled into bed, then fell into exhausted sleep.

tbc

A/N: I've become very fond of M&M stories or scenes, ways to sneak in a meaningful reference to Dean's candy of choice, peanut M&Ms. Hopefully, you also liked my explanation of why Dean glommed onto peanut M&Ms in the first place.

I'm also trying to walk the fine line between TMI and writing enough to give you a sense of the days passing in

what is mostly a talking heads story. Thanks to everyone for continuing to read this and comments are always appreciated;-)


	3. Chapter 3 United Effort

A/N: I have to fold this story back into the episode, so some of this chapter is borrowed from the episode Faith, written by Sera Gamble and Raelle Tucker. I'm sure you'll recognize it when you read it.

Three Dark Days

By Swellison

"Seven." Sam laid his card, a seven of spades, on the tray table strategically arranged over Dean's bed. The head of the bed had been raised, slanting steeply so Dean was sitting up.

"Fifteen for two." Dean placed his eight of clubs on a separate pile on the table, then reached for the board, slowly pegging the two points he'd just earned.

Sam tried to ignore the amount of coordination and energy it was taking Dean just to score his own points. He put the eight of spades on his stack. "Twenty-three for two." Sam advanced his back peg two points on the cribbage board.

"Thirty-one for eight." Dean placed the third eight—the eight of hearts—on his stack, his eyes momentarily lit by victory and big brother smugness.

_Well, at least he's still playing to win, hasn't given up on everything. _Sam watched Dean slowly extend his hand toward the cribbage board. He picked up Dean's peg to score for his brother, only to have his hand feebly slapped. _Still rejecting a helping hand. Still Dean._ Sam waited for Dean to finish scoring, then placed a jack on his pile and started the next run to thirty-one. "Ten."

They played for another fifteen minutes, the game decided in the last hand. Dean won, mostly because his last crib had five points in it, enough for him to peg slowly and deliberately past the finish line. "I win." Dean paused, taking a couple of breaths. "Wanna play again?"

"Not right now," Sam said, bundling up the game and putting it into his satchel. He gathered up the cards and slipped them into their box. "Hey, you thirsty?"

"A little."

Sam grabbed the plastic cup of ice chips from the floor, where he'd moved it when he'd set up the cribbage game. He handed the cup to his brother, then waited while Dean tipped the cup into his mouth, languidly chewing the melting ice chips and clumsily putting the cup on the tray.

Out of the blue, Sam started talking. "One of my buddies at Stanford was a psychology major. He had a theory about parenting: the one good parent theory, he called it. Pete thought it didn't matter if a kid came from a traditional two-parent home or a blended family or was raised by a single parent, like a working mom or even a grandma or grandpa. As long as a kid has one good parent, he'll turn out all right."

Sam met Dean's eyes, which said he was clearly puzzled by the conversation.

"I had that," Sam ended softly.

Dean cleared his throat. "Well. Glad you're finally starting to appreciate Dad, even if it is in hindsight."

"I'm not talking about Dad. I'm talking about you, you jerk."

"Oh." Dean glanced away, fiddling with the blanket. After a few awkward seconds, he said, "Speaking of Dad, have you called him yet? Told him about…me?"

Sam winced. "No, not yet. I was waiting for more infor—"

"Call him, Sammy." Dean's voice was surprisingly firm. "He needs to know."

Sam could hear his brother's unspoken words: _I want to see him…before I go._ "Okay, I'll call him tonight." Dean seemed to relax after hearing that, but Sam wasn't finished. "Dean…you've always been an awesome big brother—"

"I'm always right, too," Dean interrupted, perhaps trying to stave off the chick-flick moment that was suddenly in the air.

"But I haven't always returned the favor."

"Sammy." Dean sighed. "Little brothers are s'pposed to be a pain in the ass, sometimes. It's in your job description."

_Pain in the ass, maybe, but not in the heart._ "I'm sorry about Rockford, Dean. I drilled you with rock salt and I said some terrible things to you…but I didn't mean it, really."

"We've been over this before. That wasn't you. It was Ellicott. I get that. End of story."

"And I left you high and dry just before Burkitsville, too. Took off to find Dad and almost got you killed."

"You came back, though, in the nick of time. Saved me and Emily from the scarecrow god." Dean's cracked voice was full of resolve. "Sam. We're okay."

_How can we be okay?_ _You're dying._ But the little brother in Sam grasped gratefully at the words. "Really?"

"Really. Now will you shut up so I can get some rest? I'm overdue for my morning nap." Dean yawned.

"Dean, it's two in the afternoon."

"Exactly." Dean's eyelids slid closed and he shook his head, muttering "girl" as he drifted off to sleep.

Sam eyed his sleeping brother, then picked up the remote control for the bed and lowered it back almost flat. Then he reached for another ancient book in his satchel. He'd exhausted witchcraft and protection spells and was now delving into rituals as a way to help Dean. Locating his bookmark, he started reading.

Just after five, Dean woke from his nap and wanted to play another game of cribbage. Sam kept score on paper this time, and Dean didn't argue about it…although he did manage to win. Again.

Sam congratulated him, then turned the conversation serious again. "You know I missed you while I was at Stanford, right?"

"Sam—"

"Everything was all new and exciting. Completely different. The first day was—"

"Sam," Dean cut in again, warningly. "Don't."

"Wh-what?"

"I don't want to hear it."

Sam shook his head. "That's not true." Dean had always been interested in what Sam was doing, absorbing endless prattle about spelling bees and aced book reports and pop quizzes…

"You didn't want me to know anything about your life at Stanford while you were living it." For once, Dean wasn't keeping the accusation out of his tone. "Well, I don't want to hear about it now, like some sort of consolation prize for dying."

"What?" Sam felt like he'd been sucker-punched. "That's not—" he protested weakly.

"No, Sam."

Sam heard the order, loud and clear.

"Hi, Mr. Berkowitz." The young nurse from yesterday stepped suddenly through the doorway. "Sorry I'm here so late. We're running behind schedule today." She turned her head and smiled at Sam. "I see you have company again. Hi, Sam."

"That's okay, I was just leaving." Sam grabbed his satchel and threw it over his shoulder, picking up his coat from the back of the visitor's chair. "I'm going back to the motel for dinner. Hospital food disagrees with me." Two steps and Sam was at the entrance to Dean's cubicle. He cast a quick glance at his brother, then left, making a conscious effort to walk normally down the hospital corridor, not wanting to stomp down the hall and disturb the other patients on the floor.

SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN_SPN

Sam sat at the foot of his bed, his right foot firmly on the floor, his left leg folded underneath him. Torn, stonewashed jeans easily stretched to allow him the comfortable position. He sat next to the scattered array of heart disease pamphlets and flyers, not really wanting to look at them if he could avoid it. He also tried not to glance at the black background of the floral wallpaper that covered the majority of the room; it was too funereal for his tastes.

That kept his eyes downturned, staring at the too-green carpeting on the floor. _How could I have just left like that? Let Dean's words get to me and leave him all alone?_ Dean had put up with his crap for twenty-two years, always forgiving him and letting Sam walk all over him. Sam knew his brother had abandonment issues._ How could I leave him, dy—stuck in that damn hospital bed? What kind of brother am I? _Dean deserved so much better…

Sam suddenly realized his cell phone was ringing, and he snatched it from his back pocket and held it to his ear. "Hello?"

"_Sam? This is Joshua. We spoke earlier…and I think I have something for you." _

Sam's heartbeat increased. "You do?"

"_Yes. I found a modern miracle worker. Reverend Roy LeGrange. He works out of a tent-church in Nebraska." _

"A faith healer?" Sam asked dubiously. "Uh, that's not—"

"_Hey!"_ Joshua barked, interrupting. _"I'm a hunter, too. I know how improbable this sounds, but this guy LeGrange is the real deal, Sam. I checked him out thoroughly. He's healed several people in the past year, and they're all legit. Those people were all dying before they contacted LeGrange, and they're all walking around today, completely healthy."_ He coughed. _"Mind you, I haven't taken a good look at how LeGrange is healing these folk, but he's certainly getting results." _

"That's what's important. Can you give me his location?"

"_Like I said, he operates out of a tent: The Church of Roy LeGrange, in Ford City, Nebraska. Where are you now?" _

Sam told him and wrote down the driving directions. "Thanks, Joshua. I really appreciate this."

"_Glad I can help. Always told your Dad I'd look out for you if I could. Call me back with any news, y'hear?" _

"I will, and thanks again. Bye, Joshua." Sam clicked off his phone and stared at the display for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and hit speed dial.

"_This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son Dean. 866-907-3235. He can help." _

Sam listened to the familiar message in its entirety, then spoke, trying to figure out what to say as he went along. "Hey, Dad, it's Sam. Ah…you probably won't even get this, but, ah, it's Dean." Sam sighed, and plowed on. "He's sick and, ah, doctors say there's nothing they can do. Um, but, ah, they don't know things we know, right? Um, so don't worry, 'cause, um, I'm, ah, gonna do whatever it takes to get him better." Sam paused, vigorously nodding to himself. "All right. I just wanted you to know." He clicked the message off and tossed the phone down. It landed on the bedspread, on top of one of the heart disease pamphlets. Then he brought his fingers to his mouth in a half-curled fist and pondered life, the universe, and how to tell Dean he was taking him to a faith healer.

His thoughts were interrupted by the unexpected rapping on his door. Sam rose rapidly from the bed, strode to the grimy white door, and opened it, stepping back in surprise as Dean leaned against the doorjamb. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I checked myself out." Dean lurched inside, hunched stiffly in the faded black hoodie.

"Are you crazy?"

"I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot." He turned toward Sam, left hand raised with his fingers outspread as if emphasizing a point in casual conversation.

Sam snorted and shook his head. "You know, this whole 'I laugh in the face of death' thing? It's crap. I can see right through it." _And you can see right through me. You know I'm sorry I ran out on you earlier. I was coming back, too—but you beat me to it. _

"Yeah, whatever, dude."

There was a return apology in Dean's faded voice as he walked farther into the room.

"Have you even slept?" Dean threw over his shoulder. "You look worse than me."

Sam clapped Dean's back, gently but firmly guiding him to the wood-framed desk chair Sam had used during the previous night's internet research session. He settled his brother into the chair, then plopped down on the green and gold-striped bedspread. "I've been scouring the internet for the last three days."

"Yeah?" Dean asked weakly.

Sam heard the effort it was taking for his brother to inject interest into his flat tone. "Calling every contact in Dad's journal."

"For what?"

Sam glanced worriedly at his stricken brother. _God, Dean, are you really that obtuse? Isn't it obvious? _"For a way to help you. One of Dad's friends, Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska. A specialist." Sam glommed onto the substitute word without thought.

Dean was staring at him. "You're not gonna let me die in peace, are you?"

"I'm not gonna let you die, period," Sam declared, resolute. "We're going." He stared defiantly at Dean, daring his brother to protest.

Instead, Dean's head tipped forward and he slumped further into his seat.

Sam rose hastily. "But first, you're going to bed." He glanced at the pamphlet-strewn bed he'd just vacated, then reached to help Dean to his feet. He guided his brother over to the empty second bed—the one closer to the door—and let Dean lean against him while one long arm yanked the bedspread and covers back. Dean sat on the bed, and Sam stooped to take off Dean's shoes and socks. Next, he unzipped Dean's hoodie and slipped it off. Still no comment from Dean. He must've used every last bit of energy he had just to get there. Sam unbuckled and removed Dean's belt, then eased his brother flat. Dean could sleep in his jeans and t-shirt for one night. Pulling the covers up, Sam worriedly took in his brother's super-pale face and the dark circles under his eyes. "Rest, Dean. We'll head for Nebraska in the morning."

"Umm-hmm."

Dean's drowsy acknowledgment left a slight smile on Sam's face as he returned to his own bed. He bunched the pamphlets into a neat pile and dumped them on the kitchen table, then picked up a piece of pizza from the box he'd had delivered earlier that evening. He'd only managed to eat one then, his appetite having deserted him the way he'd deserted his brother. Now, though, both were back, and Sam munched enthusiastically on the cold slice. The rest of the pizza he shoved into the fridge, then walked back to his bed. He resituated the chair so he could watch over Dean, picked up the laptop, and sat down. Propping his legs up on his bed, Sam jiggled the mouse, getting the laptop out of sleep mode. Becca had replied already.

_Hi, Sam, _

_I'm so sorry to hear about Dean. {{{{hugs}}}} _

_Mom's on the Board of Directors for Washington University Hospital, here in town. How's that for clout? Seriously, Sam, bring Dean home to St. Louis and we Warrens will handle the rest. Dean will get his heart transplant. Zach and I owe you guys everything—please accept our help as our sincerest thanks. _

_Zach is back at Stanford, enrolled in the MBA program. He wanted to get away from here for a while and needed a fresh start. Remember, you've still got plenty of friends at Stanford. Just say the word, and Zach and I'll launch the biggest fundraiser for Dean the campus has ever seen. _

_Take care of yourself and your brother._

_Love, Becky _

Sam re-read the email, stunned. Becky had not only given him hope, but a Plan B as well. His gaze shifted from Becca's email to his brother's slumbering form.

Friends and family—he had both. And he intended to keep it that way, whatever it took.

The End

A/N: Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed this little foray into one of my all-time favorite episodes, Faith!


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